


The Jersey Island Raven Pot Pie Society

by LydiaStJames



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: A Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society au, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Pining, enemies to lovers in a way, they write letters and cute crap like that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-09-25 07:29:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17117060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaStJames/pseuds/LydiaStJames
Summary: It had been two years since the war ended and Adam Parrish thought he was doing quite nicely for himself as an author...except for the fact he didn't have an idea for his next book. Inspiration beckons when he begins to correspond with the members of the Jersey Island Raven Pot Pie Society. Adam quickly finds himself wrapped up in the secrets of the island and its society, the adorable 4-year old child with a missing mother, and the grumpy Irish farmer who started it all.(A Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society au, but you don't have to know it to enjoy the story. Or so I hope.)





	1. It has come to my attention that you are an ignorant fat-head.

**Author's Note:**

> FAQ from the little voice inside my head:  
> Q: Can I count on this story to be historically accurate?   
> A: Ha! Absolutely not. (But hey, no homophobia.)   
> Q: Did you at least Google when WW2 ended so you got the basic dates right?   
> A: Yes, but with my memory, don't count on it staying accurate for long. I'm already written the year as 2017 instead of 1947 four times.  
> Q: Do you know any Irish slang?  
> A: NOPE. I'm using my memory of slang from The Time it Takes (To Believe in Fate) and winging it.

_March, 1947_

 

The first letter from Ronan Niall Lynch was delivered on a deceitfully sunny day in London. The weather had put Adam in a rare good mood, which made the harsh words more insulting than usual.

The weather wasn’t the only thing that threw him off that day. Adam never received letters from anybody but his editor - an intentional choice on his part, not one that reflected his popularity as a writer. Adam was doing quite nicely for himself in that regard, actually. His weekly column in _The London Times_ had made him a household name, and he’d secured a three-deal book with his editor.

Still, he didn’t like his address to be publicized. (God forbid his parents tracked him down. Not even the Atlantic Ocean could keep his father from being an asshole, so Adam took no chances.) Fan mail was delivered to his editor, who delivered it to him.

Not this letter, though. It was the opposite of adoration. It read:

>  
> 
> _Dear Mr. Parrish,_
> 
> _It has come to my attention that you are an ignorant fat-head. I don’t normally write correspondence, so you should take this letter as a testament to how utterly stupid you are._
> 
> _Your name has been familiar to me since before the war. I came into possession of a book with your name and address in it, and though I had absolutely no interest in the romantic drabble, there was not much to do while Germany invaded Jersey. I may have read it more than necessary and since your name welcoming me at every read, it became quite familiar. (At some point, expect a letter detailing how moronic you must be to not only own this book, but to love it so much that you documented ownership, only to lose it!)_
> 
> _So you can imagine my surprise when the ships dropped off newspapers we’d been missing out on and I saw your name. Your articles are complete fabrications and spoil the good name of Ireland. I can only assume it’s your American blood that makes you such a judgmental buffoon, or what led you to think anyone would want to hear your narcissistic grand-standing about your superiority for being from a country who happily engaged in war. The United States seemed perfectly content to their neutrality until it affected them. Is that supposed to impress me?_
> 
> _Your ideas are rubbish and your writing is simply adequate._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Ronan Niall Lynch_

Adam gaped. He wasn’t new to criticism – after all, _The London Times_ had specifically asked he be inflammatory as to sell papers – but to say his writing was s _imply adequate?_

He flipped the envelope over. _How did he get Adam’s address?_ There was a stamp listing that it had been forwarded from his previous flat, one that had, sadly, been demolished by a German bomb years prior. Adam never got rid of his books  –  took up a stupid amount of space, but growing up he dreamed of an extensive, personal library – but the explosion had ruined so many of them. Perhaps one had survived the wreck and made its way to… _the_ _Jersey Island?_ At least that’s what the return address implied.

Wait—

A _return address?_

Without thinking it through, Adam dug out his personal stationary set and penned a reply.

 

> _Dear Mr. Lynch,_
> 
> _Believe it or not, I was pleased to receive your letter. Despite your ridiculous insults, it’s every writer’s dream to inspire others to put pen to paper. Perhaps my response will continue inspiration. I can only hope so, as your penmanship proves the necessity for thorough practice._
> 
> _It appears that, despite your address, you are not native to Jersey Island. What made you leave Ireland? I would gather a guess but, as you know, there are so many,_ many _reasons one might leave Ireland and, clearly, you agreed._
> 
> _Are you upset at my words? I hope so. You see, as a writer it’s my job to be controversial, as it’s_ a form of entertainment. _You think you’re smart to critique the writing of a journalist during the war period? I wrote what I was asked of me to distract from the atrocities of the war._
> 
> _I hope you realize that, in reality, I have absolutely no ill-will towards Ireland. It’s hard to dislike a country that you hardly think of._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Adam Parrish_
> 
> _P.S. – I have enclosed a book I wrote before the war as proof of my true literary capabilities._

He packaged the novel – a biography on Virginia Woolf – and his letter into a box secured with a light blue ribbon. Adam hoped the packaging would deceive Mr. Lynch into the assumption it was a present.

Adam sent the package the next morning, fully expecting to never hear from Mr. Lynch again.

 

* * *

 

 

_June 1947_

 

Adam sat outside his editor’s office, hands tapping on his knees. Henry was late, as usual, and his new secretary was humming something insufferably off-key.

Eventually Henry beckoned Adam into his office. His editor – and childhood friend – was nursing a cigarette that he never quite brought to his lips. Each time he made the motion to inhale his telephone would ring, or he’d remember some research he needed to give Adam, or his assistant would barge in with another question. Eventually Henry stared at the burnt-down cigarette with a sigh and tossed it aside.

“It’s a bad habit anyway,” Adam offered.

“True. But it does wonders for my image. There’s something about a man with suspenders and a cigarette that screams _editor,_ don’t you think?”

Adam had a completely opposite opinion of Henry’s style choices as of late so he changed the subject. “About my book idea—”

“Oh, that’s right. What have you got for me?”

Adam fumbled on his words. “I was thinking—maybe if I got more time—or perhaps we should—”

“I see.” Henry frowned, a look Adam detested. Henry’s lips were so thin that, when stretched flat, there was no mistaking his displeasure. “Still nothing, aye?”

Adam sank into his chair and puffed out a sigh. “No.”

“Perhaps if you spent more time working on your _novel_ instead of writing letters—”

“That has nothing to do with this!”

Henry was referring to his correspondence with a certain grumpy Irishman. Contrary to his expectations, Ronan Lynch _did_ respond to his previous letter. _And then some._

Actually, in the span of three months, Adam had written back three times. Unsurprisingly, Ronan did not respond well and continued to antagonize Adam. The first response was a two-page rant about the wonders of Ireland. Before Adam had a chance to respond to that one, Ronan had sent yet _another_ letter detailing his critiques of Adam’s book.

 

> _Dear Mr. Parrish,_
> 
> _While I admit your writing is better in this novel, it seems preposterous that you, a writer with no reputation, would have the gall to interpret the works of Virginia Woolf. The Raven Pot Pie Society spent an entire month analyze_ A Room With a View _and you, sir, did not do her justice. (And for the record, I brought your novel to the Society and they completely agreed with my sentiments.)_
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  Ronan Niall Lynch_
> 
>  

And then the letter continued to complain about his newspaper articles. Apparently more newspapers were being delivered to Jersey – backdated from 1942 and onward  – which meant Ronan had literally _years_ of material to complain about.

Adam, being the sensible man that he was, tried to divert the conversation. In his short response, Adam merely wrote:

 

> _Dear Mr. Lynch,_
> 
> _And what, might I ask, is The Raven Society? If my book is to be judged I’d like to know the merits of the said society. Can their critique be trusted? Are they scholars? Average citizens? It’s hard to take your Society’s opinions seriously when I know nothing about them._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Adam Parrish_

As it turned out, _The Raven Pot Pie Society_ was a book club, formed during the initial occupation of Jersey. While it had started somewhat as a joke – one of the members had suggested a secret evening of wine, merriment, and (outlawed) sugar – after being caught sneaking home after curfew, a smart-thinking woman named Ashley had declared they were meeting for their monthly book club.

_The Jersey Island Raven Pot Pie Society_ , Ashley had explained to the German soldiers. (A little inside joke, Adam found out, because someone had accidentally referred to the pheasant they’d secretly procured that evening as a raven. In true drunk fashion, everyone found the mistake uproariously hilarious.)

All of this Adam learned not from Ronan, but from the members of _The Raven Pot Pie Society._ Instead of detailing the members in his own words, Ronan had apparently asked the other members to write _to_ Adam.

He’d received letters from three members so far. The first was from Richard Campbell Gansey the III:

 

> _Dear Mr. Parrish,_
> 
> _When Ronan told me of your correspondence I was horrifically embarrassed – on his behalf. I can only imagine what he has been writing. Ronan is not known for his diplomacy, nor his way with words. He is a good man, I promise, and I hope you can one day forgive him for his insults._
> 
> _He asked me to detail to you the various reasons we were displeased with your novel. Frankly, I hadn’t planned to write to you at all, but as he continued to explain your correspondence, I felt my heart drop to my shoes. Don’t believe a word he says! We had nothing but kind words to say about your book. It was only Ronan who found cause to complain, but that’s Ronan for you._

 

The letter continued for several pages – details upon details of life on Jersey, Gansey’s job at the post office, the occupation of the island – before he finally ended it. Adam wrote back, of course, because he found Gansey immediately charming and because he valued the ability to have a friend who belittled Ronan.

The other letters came from Noah Czerny and Blue Sargent. Noah’s letter was filled with enthusiasm for Ronan and his apparent “kind nature;” Blue’s letter, on the other hand, detailed her annoyance with Ronan, the Germans, and her inability to create a gin that tasted of elderberries. Neither mentioned Adam’s book even once, though they told him of their personal favorite books.

So he wrote back to them as well. With Blue, he began an earnest debate about whether Jane Austen deserved her reputation, and with Noah, he learned the gossip of the island. In particular, Adam wanted to know about the mysterious founder of The Raven Pot Pie Society – Ashley – who was sent to a work camp before the war ended.

In his most recent letter, Noah had written:

 

> _Dear Adam,_
> 
> _We’ve got no word on Ashley, actually. She was taken by the Germans back in 1944 and we’ve heard nothing since. Such a shame, too, because her daughter is here on the island. Opal misses her dearly and we don’t know what to tell her. It is so kind of you to offer to look for her! I know Ronan would appreciate it. I think we’d take bad news to no news at this point…_
> 
> _By the way, your novel was brought up again in our society last night. Ronan just can’t stop talking about it -- complaints, of course. Oh! I hope this doesn’t upset you. Know that he simply likes to rant. Before the war that’s all he did. Complain, complain, complain. That spark died in him for a long time, so it’s quite miraculous to witness his constant negativity again. (Also, secretly, I think he loves your book. Usually it’s a sign of denial when one can’t let something go, don’t you agree?)_
> 
> _I’m surprised you’ve taken such an interest in our little island! I’ve sent some newspaper clippings from our local paper of back during the war._
> 
> _Will you visit someday? You are welcome to stay at my place! My place offers a splendid view of the ocean, immense cliffs, and the most green, lush fields you’ve ever seen._
> 
> _Best,  
>  Noah_

Noah’s last letter had given Adam serious pause. Visiting Jersey. Visiting _The Raven Pot Pie Society._ It was awfully tempting. Ronan was a pill, but he enjoyed talking with the other members, and the idea of getting to actually _attend_ a meeting was enthralling. Despite being an author, Adam had no friends to talk books with. (Except Henry, of course, but his conversations focused solely on the publishing side and less on its content.)

Plus, Ronan had somewhat challenged Adam to a duel. _(“Say one more nasty thing about Ireland and we’ll need to meet outside the local pub.”)_ Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, Adam would imagine surprising Ronan on Jersey. His bravado _had_ to be a sign that Ronan was small in stature – because his writing reeked of an inferiority complex – and though Adam was no King himself, surprising Ronan at his home would ensure him victory.

A snapping noise brought Adam back to where he was. Henry pulled his fingers back from Adam’s face and grimaced. “Wow, I thought you were gone forever in that big noggin’ of yours.”

“Sorry, just thinking.” Adam leaned forward, biting the edge of his thumb. “I did have one idea. Sort of.”

Henry gestured for him to continue.

“But seriously, it’s only an idea. It’s probably going to be terrible, or better for an article than a novel, or—”

_“Adam Parrish,_ so help me God, if you don’t spit out what you want to say I will bring my assistant back into this room and have her sing the American National Anthem.”

“Fine!” Adam dug Noah’s most recent letter from his bag and gave it to Henry. “They want me to come visit. And I want to. Something happened on this island – more than just the occupation – and I want to find out more. I tried to track Ashley down myself but she’s vanished. It could be—I don’t know. It could be a story.”

Henry re-read Noah’s letter before tossing it on the desk and reclining into his seat. He kicked his legs on his desk – revealing a pair of argyle socks tucked into ridiculously shiny Oxfords – and continued to _hmmm_.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt anything for you to go,” Henry said finally. “It’s not like you’re coming up with a story here.”

“Precisely.”

“Alright. Talk to my secretary about scheduling you on a boat out. We’ll cover the cost of the ticket, but since you have a kind offer for free lodging, I shan’t be dipping into company funds for that.”

As he always did when he was truly happy, Adam hid his smile by sucking his lips into his mouth. He didn’t like for people to know what he was feeling – absurd, of course, but it was a habit – and true smiles were saved for special occasions.

“Thank you, Henry.”

“My pleasure. But Adam – don’t go falling in love there.”

Adam grimaced. “With _who?_ The surly farmer who insults me at every turn? I think not. _”_

Henry rolled his eyes. “With the _island_ , Parrish. Don’t go falling in love with _the island._ ”

Which, as it turned out, was a realistic threat.

 

* * *

 

_July 1947_

 

Despite wanting to get on the first boat to Jersey Island as soon as he left Henry’s office, the practicality of packing up and leaving for vacation was more difficult than he planned. First, he had a few articles to finish up – small little opinion pieces that allowed him to put a little more money into his bank account – and perhaps more important, telling his most recent beau he’d be out of the country for an unforeseeable amount of time.

It was nothing serious, his relationship with Tad Carruthers. He was the heir to an American publishing company and took a liking to his books, which led to meetings, which led to occasional drinks. Adam enjoyed his company enough to keep meeting up with Tad, but not enough to stop his trip to Jersey.

Tad did not take the news well. “But _why?_ Who would want to go there? _”_

“Me. Obviously.”

Tad’s eyes narrowed over the rim of his whiskey. Once done with his drink, Tad reached across the table and draped his fingers over Adam’s closed fist. Instinctively, Adam relaxed his hand. He hadn’t realized he was even doing it.

“But you’ll call me often, right?” Tad rubbed his thumb back and forth on Adam’s skin, a move meant to be comforting but felt meaningless.  

“Of course.”

Tad squeeze Adam’s hand and sat back. “Don’t go falling in love on that island, Adam. I won’t have you leaving me forever.”

“I promise you, London is my home. The island won’t tempt me.”

“And the villagers? You won’t be swayed, will you? That farmer that writes you sure seems a passionate one. I can only imagine the muscles he has from hefting hay and attending to crops all day.”

God, why did Adam ever mention Ronan’s letter? Tad erred on the jealous side and it wasn’t amusing. “Don’t worry. He’s a pig-farmer, hardly the scene for a romantic encounter. Anyway, he must be ages old. Who else but a grouchy old man would write a letter of complaint to a complete stranger?”

Tad raised his glass to clink against Adam’s water cup.

“Cheers, then.”

 

* * *

 

_August 1947_

 

Adam was on the boat to Jersey. _He was finally going to Jersey._ When the island came into view he took out Blue’s most recent letter and reread it.

 

> _Dearest Adam,_
> 
> _We are just so excited to meet you! We planned a little welcome party for your arrival. Look for a stupidly tall bloke with no hair (Ronan), a blonde cherub of a man (Noah), and myself. I’ll be wearing a bright red hat and carrying a giant bottle of gin. Gansey stated that I must, must, **must** let you know he would be there if he could, but alas. His job calls._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Blue_
> 
> _P.S. Ronan has insisted I include the detail that I am quite short. I suppose it’s true, but the red hat seemed enough of a moniker to recognize me by._

 

 

The first time he read her letter Adam couldn’t help but laugh. The absurdity of Tad’s worries grew. No hair? Ronan had to be old. Old, grumpy, but perhaps marginally amusing.

Carefully, Adam folded the letter back into his pocket and took a deep breath of cool, morning air. He would never get used to the temperature of summers in the United Kingdom. He grew up with the blistering heat of Virginia summers – the kind of heat that left one permanently sticky from sweat. It wasn’t the reason he left America, but he sure didn’t miss it.

Docking at the island took absurdly long. Adam paced the boat, hands wringing at the stem of flowers he’d brought. They were daisies, nothing fancy, but they were easily transportable and would make a good impression on Blue, he assumed. For Noah he had brought a bottle of wine, tucked safely in his bag, and for Ronan—well. He planned to gift him the generosity of a clean start.

It was not difficult to find The Raven Pot Pie Society once he debarked. Blue had not exaggerated the redness of her hat – it was so very bright, and so unlike the drab colors the Jersey folk wore – that it was hard not to notice her right away. She stood linking arms with a boy so blonde that Adam’s heart spiked without warning.

To calm himself, Adam searched for Ronan. There wasn’t an old-man in site – had he bailed at the last minute?

Blue swept Adam into a hug as soon as he got to her, Noah following suit after. Noah asked so many questions – _How was the boat ride? What did you think of the view? Did you do any writing on the boat? Did you bring any books to discuss? How are you feeling? Are you hungry? Thirsty?_

Blue pushed Noah aside. “Let him breathe!” She then lowered her voice and pulled open her jacket to reveal a small bottle. “Though if you are thirsty, just say the word.”

“I’m alright for now, thank you.” Adam fixed one of the daisies – the stem had broken and it dangled awkwardly from the bouquet. “Where’s Mr. Lynch?”

“Oh, he’s here somewhere. Opal was getting antsy, waiting all that time. He promised to by her a hot chocolate. Noah – do you see him? I can’t see over the crowd.”

Noah had to stand on the tips of his toes to search, and after a minute of looking his eyes lit up. “Oh, there they are. Ronan! Ronan, hurry up you bastard, you’re late!”

Adam followed Noah’s gaze, disappointed that he couldn’t immediately find the old man. Perhaps he was behind the towering man coming their way. The bloke was large enough to block an old man, surely, with his wide shoulders and sturdy build. (A feat that seemed impossible in this day and age. Everyone was painfully thin from the war.)

The man continued coming their way. While they waited for their last companion, Adam allowed himself to admire the stranger. Now _that_ was a man who Tad could be worried about, Adam thought briefly. Eyes the color of the ocean he just sailed across and a neatly trimmed beard that defined his jaw.

Then the man tugged off his hat and ran his hand across his scalp. His _bare_ scalp.

And then a small blonde child ran up to him and tugged at his hand, wanting to hold it.

Adam choked so hard that Blue hit him on the back.

“You okay, Adam?”

“Ronan, this is Adam Parrish!” Noah tugged at the man’s arm and pulled him close. The man – oh, God, _Ronan –_ was surveying Adam with wary eyes. “Oh, come on. Say ‘hello’!”

Ronan dipped his head and muttered a greeting. His accent was strong and unmistakably Irish.

Blue was staring at Adam. As was Noah. And the child – Opal – and then Ronan raised an eyebrow and Adam suddenly realized, _oh, that’s right, you need to say something back._

“Hello,” Adam said. He cleared his throat, hoping the next thing he said wouldn’t sound so ridiculous. “Yes, I’m, um, Adam. Parrish. Lovely to meet you.”

Adam’s body continued its self-destruction. Before he realized he was doing it, Adam thrust the bouquet of daisies toward Ronan and said, “These are for you.”

Which was possibly the most embarrassing thing that could have happened.

 


	2. You are welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pining, pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the letter-heavy beginning.

 

> _From Ronan to Adam, letter undelivered_
> 
> _August 3 rd, 1947_
> 
> _Dear Mr. Parrish,_
> 
> _~~I’ve been thinking about what you said at the Society the other night. Your commentary on critique was—~~ _
> 
> _~~Where do you get the nerve—~~ _
> 
> _~~I’m sorry if I offended you. I was just trying to be polite.~~ _
> 
> _This is rubbish._
> 
> _Best,  
>  Ronan Lynch_
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

 

> _From Adam to Henry_
> 
> _August 4 th, 1947_
> 
> _Dear Henry,_
> 
> _It’s been three days since I landed on Jersey Island and I’ve loved almost every second of it. (Will it come as any surprise that the “almost” is a reference to a certain cantankerous farmer? I think not.)_
> 
> _You really must come visit the island, it’s breathtaking. And I know you’ve traveled a lot and are thinking, “This poor, stupid American boy probably thinks every place he goes outside America is amazing,” and, yes, true, but there’s still something very special about this place._
> 
> _I hate small towns – you know this – but it’s different here because it’s in a small_ world. _It’s not easy to escape the island so they’ve made it everything you could want. It’s charming and wholesome and people are genuinely wonderful and kind (except you-know-who) and they cherish books because books are powerful. And I know I sound nauseating, but I can’t help it! That’s how amazing this island is!_
> 
> _The Raven Pot Pie Society already feels like family, is that stupid? After Noah helped me settle in my first day, he took me over to Gansey’s house where the meetings are usually held. He had baked a “Raven Pot Pie” in my honor, Blue had me try several of her home-made and incredibly strong gins (don’t worry, I’ve already asked if could have a few to give to you), and everyone begged that I read from my Woolf novel. I did – only because of the gin – and Henry, they actually_ **asked me questions**. _They commented thoughtfully and argued passionately about her books and God! Why can’t people in London care as much about books as they do?_
> 
> _Ronan, of course, was rude from the moment we met. He insisted on carrying my bags, and when I protested, he pinched my arm and said my bones were going to snap right off. Before I could prove I was perfectly capable, he just pitched one over his shoulder and sped off. (And as much as it pleases me that you’re probably imagining a creaky geezer who somehow outpaces me, it turns out Ronan is not an old man.)_
> 
> _At the Raven Society he barely spoke two words to me. When I was reading from my book he had the audacity to_ get up and get a drink! _He offered no thoughts, no questions. Afterwards I asked him if he still thought my book unfitting and he had the nerve to say, “It’s good.” GOOD._ ‘ _Good’ is only good when it’s followed with specific examples; when said by itself, it’s obviously a placeholder for a less-polite word._
> 
> _So, naturally, I told him his etiquette was also “good.” I told him he should show me his farm, but it’s only so that I can deem it also “good.”_
> 
> _I must admit that Ronan is responsible for one wonderful thing, though: Opal. I think she is his ward while her mother is gone. She’s picked up his judgmental frown, but it’s a much better look on a four-year-old. I’m trying to win her over but I’m not sure how. She carries around this box of treasures and I want to ask what’s inside, because I’m sure it’ll be the best glimpse into her brain, but she won’t show it to me. Yet. I’m working on it._
> 
> _As for the story of the missing founding member – no word on Ashley yet. I don’t want to upset everyone if her disappearance is…well. Final. I don’t think it is. When they talk about her to Opal they speak of her in the present tense._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Adam_
> 
> _PS: Somehow Tad found out I was staying with Noah and sent me flowers. Please tell me that wasn’t your doing._

* * *

 

 

 

> _From Ronan to Adam, excerpt_
> 
> _August 5 th, 1947_
> 
> _Dear Mr. Parrish,_
> 
> _Noah tells me you were upset that I didn’t speak at the Society the other night. (Never tell him anything you want kept secret.) We can’t have our guest-of-honor upset, so as requested, here is my comments on your book. I hope you enjoy the following three pages._
> 
> _It was your own beloved Virginia Woolf who once said, "The difficulty about criticism is that it is so superficial. The writer has gone so much deeper... Our criticism is only a birds eye view of the pinnacle of an iceberg. The rest is water."_
> 
> _This is why I object to your novel. Don’t you think it’s presumptuous to critique Woolf? You say you love her work and yet you write an entire novel dedicated to finding fault in her writing…_

* * *

 

 

> _From Adam to Ronan_
> 
> _August 6 th, 1947_
> 
> _Dear Mr. Lynch,_
> 
> _I was surprised to receive a letter from you, considering your house is down the road from where I’m staying. Quite the unconventional approach. I suppose that’s you in a nutshell, though, isn’t it?_
> 
> _I’m not sure what to write. Thank you, I suppose. Your response to my book was an invigorating read, though I could do without the scathing commentary on my use of semi-colons. I would love to discuss this with you in further detail. In person, that is. I’d love to see your farm, what about Saturday?_
> 
> _In the meantime, though, I will answer your initial question about whether it’s presumptuous of me to critique her. You are correct in some ways, and as usual, completely wrong in others. I would argue it’s my_ **duty** _as a Woolf fan to critique her. Afterall, you can love someone completely and still critique them. As she said, you can only critique if you can see below the iceberg; as a follower of her work, I believe I can safely say I’ve seen the entire mountain._
> 
> _I mean… doesn’t your partner ever critique you?_
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Adam Parrish_
> 
> _PS: You will notice I have limited myself to only using one semi-colon. You are welcome._

* * *

 

_From Ronan to Adam_

 

> _August 7 th, 1947_
> 
> _Dear Mr. Parrish,_
> 
> _Fine; you can visit._
> 
> _Bring suitable clothes; it’s muddy here. If you don’t want your clothes ruined, dress accordingly._
> 
> _I will await your visit and subsequent gift with anticipation; should I expect another gift of flowers?_
> 
> _Ronan Lynch_
> 
> _P.S. I’m worried you won’t notice my excessive use of semi-colons; at the risk of ruining my subtlety, please review the letter for full effect._

* * *

 

They’d been at Ronan’s farm for an hour and Ronan barely spoke. It was driving Adam insane. He tried to prompt further conversation – asking what the names of the pigs were, or if it was difficult to be a farmer, if he liked Jersey, who his favorite author was (which turned out to be Hemingway, which-- _of course)_ , anything, _anything_ Adam could think of he would ask.

Ronan answered with only one word. Sometimes he simply shrugged.

Adam would think him shy if not for his letters. No, Ronan had proven he wasn’t one to bite his tongue. _So why now?_

 _To infuriate me,_ Adam thought. _I came with the expectation of talking, so talking is the last thing he will do._

Adam asked to use the restroom as a convenient excuse to see the inside of his house. Ronan just pointed to the door and grunted.

It was then that Adam lost his temper, just a bit. He snapped, “What’s that? Did you say, ‘Why, yes, Adam, please go inside. The washroom won’t be difficult to find in the slightest, which is why I’ve decided to be an absolute heathen and stay with the pigs’?”

Ronan licked his bottom lip, glowering all the while, then pushed past Adam toward the house. He kicked off his boots – literally, they went flying across the deck – and gestured for Adam to enter the house. To accentuate his impossible-ness, Ronan bowed.

“After you, Your Highness.”

Adam had a delightful response ready on his tongue. Unfortunately, Opal chose that moment to run to the door, and upon seeing the comically large, white, stuffed rabbit stuck under her arm, Adam couldn’t bare cursing.

“Hello, Opal,” Adam said instead, willing his voice to sound sweet. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

Opal blinked her huge, blue eyes at him. They were achingly clear and so familiar. “I live her.”

“Oh. Right.” Adam looked back at Ronan, who was preoccupied by taking off his many layers. Off came the unpractical wool jacket, then the tweed vest. Then he popped the top two buttons of his button-down and Adam rolled his eyes. His throat was peppered with a thin layer of sweat, which only proved the absurdity of wearing the jacket in the first place. _Idiot,_ Adam thought.

“How is your day going so far?” Adam asked Opal.

She looked up at Ronan.

“Don’t look at me,” Ronan muttered, ruffling the top of her head. “You don’t need my permission to speak. Tell him if you want.”

 _‘It talks,’_ Adam thought.

Opal held out her stuffed rabbit to Adam and said, “We had a tea party.”

“Oh, wow. Tea sounds _very_ nice right now. I’m jealous.”

Ronan scoffed. Adam shot him a dirty look, but in the end Ronan put a kettle on the stove. Mission accomplished.

Opal showed him where the restroom was; she waited patiently outside, crouched on her knees like a kitten, then led him to the kitchen table. It was decorated with several teacups – _real_ china, with beautifully painted yellow daffodils – and a giant teapot. Opal placed one of the teacups in front of Adam and pretended to poor him some tea.

“This is a beautiful tea set,” he commented.

“It’s Mama’s,” Opal whispered. Her eyes darted to Ronan’s back, then back to Adam. “Daddy says I must be careful with them.”

“Have I met your dad yet?” Adam asked as he pretended to sip his cup.

He held only the teacup itself which seemed to upset her. Opal glared at him and said, “Use the plate!”

Ronan took the opportunity to pour actual tea into Adam’s cup. Dutifully, Adam picked up the entire plate and said, “I’m so sorry.”

The teacup rattled on the plate the second Opal looked up at Ronan and uttered a word he didn’t expect: “Daddy! I need some, too!”

_Daddy?_

“It needs to cool down first, Kid.”

Adam looked to Ronan, then to Opal. He didn’t realize—He had thought Ronan simply watched over her—But this—

He didn’t know why he felt so disappointed.

 

* * *

Blue, Noah, Opal, and Adam were having a picnic at the beach. It was a gloomy day – overcast skies, the chill from the ocean whipping into their skins – but Adam loved it. He was a sweater man and enjoyed the rare opportunity to wear one during summer.

Opal was busy picking shells off the beach. The three adults had been busy discussing the war when a natural lull fell. Adam looked at Opal, then at his two new friends, and decided there was no polite way to bring up Opal’s mother. This moment would be as good as any.

“I know it’s none of my business, but I was wondering if you could tell me more about Ashley,” Adam said.

Blue and Noah shared a quick, nervous look. Though they said nothing, their eyes flitted back and forth in silent argument. Finally, Blue huffed a sigh and said, “You’ve already told him half of it, might as well finish the whole thing.”

“I really don’t need to know—”

“Ashley is a sensitive topic around here. Especially with Ronan…” Noah bit the edge of his thumb. “Everyone loved Ashley, you see. She was beautiful, inside and out. She was the one who started the Raven Pot Pie Society, as I mentioned, and sometimes it feels so wrong to continue having meetings without her…”

“She would want – I’m sure she wants us to continue without her, you know that,” Blue whispered.

Noah checked to see that Opal was still out of ear-shot before he continued. “It was a bit of a scandal, back when Lynch and Ashley fell in love. They were unmarried and all. But you see, it just didn’t seem like a priority at the time to worry about marriage! Germany had taken over our island, they were stealing our art and our food and anything that brought us happiness. By the time Ashley realized she was pregnant, Lynch had been sent out for combat.”

 _Combat?_ Well, of course Ronan had been in the war… Why did this seem so surprising to Adam? Almost every man was called to war. Adam was the rarity. (He was ineligible himself, due to a permanently damaged leg given by his father when Adam was a young boy.)  

Adam took a moment to refocus. There was a reason he needed these details – the story. The _possible_ story, if they gave him permission. Currently, however, he still knew little.

“And…after he left? What happened to Ashley?”

“She was a stupid, brave idiot, that’s what she was,” Blue whispered, voice thick with unintended anger. “Ashley was always standing up for those who needed it. Always. She got a taste for it when she was thirteen and defended Ronan from the other boys. I think the rush went to her head! Because soon that stupid girl was standing up to German soldiers. To the war itself. And look where it got her.”

Blue abruptly stopped to turn toward the ocean, the reason becoming clear as she wiped away some tears. Noah reached out to rub her shoulder, but Blue knocked his hand away, muttering, “I’m fine. I’m just—I’m angry. Not at her. I’m angry at the Nazis. At the war. And—myself. God, I’m so mad that I did nothing.”

Noah must have noticed the confusion on Adam’s face because he explained, “Ashley was arrested for trying to feed a Jewish prisoner. They sent them up here to do work. They’d starve them, overwork them… Ashley tried to save a young Jewish boy—”

“She was just giving him _food!_ ” Blue added.

“—and the Germans caught her. They killed the boy and took her away.” Noah sucked in a shaky breath, held it, worried it. “We haven’t heard anything since.”

Adam’s eyes caught on Opal. She was running along the shore, chasing after seagulls, legs speckled with sand and muddy water.

“I don’t know what to say,” Adam admitted. “I can’t—I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for all of you. For Opal. For—Ronan.”

“I know he’s a pissoff, but he’s been through a lot,” Blue said. “He’s lost…everyone.”

 “Ashley could be alive still,” Noah interjected. “And he has Opal.”

“It’s not the same and you know it,” Blue said, though not unkindly.

It was impossible to speak after that. The picnic was over, despite the uneaten food and Opal’s continuous play. Adam took advantage of the prolonged silence to think, mostly of Ronan.

_Ronan was a bastard. Ronan was damaged. Ronan lived off insults and bravado. Ronan was raising a child alone. How lonely that would be._

It made Adam rethink every moment he’d shared with Ronan. Every off-putting comment and every silence. How much of it was forgivable? No, Ronan was never that cruel —How much was _understandable?_

He left the beach knowing only one thing with full certainty: if he were to write Ashley’s story, he would need Ronan’s permission.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

At the next society meeting Adam waited for an opportunity to speak with Ronan privately. After they’d eaten, and after they’d discuss their latest book, one such moment arrived. The other members of the Society were busy pampering Opal, giving Ronan a chance to slip outside for some air. Adam allowed him a moment before following after.

He found Ronan sitting on the steps of the porch, a small book in his hand. Adam took his time sitting down, giving Ronan the opportunity to reject companionship. Ronan did not greet him, but he silently slid to the right to allow more room on the steps.

“What are you reading?” Adam asked, eyeing the leather book. It had no cover and no title.

“Nothing important,” Ronan muttered. He tucked the book into his coat pocket and ran his hand over his scalp. “Not anything we’d discuss here.”

“What could possibly be off-limits to the Society? They don’t seem picky.”

Ronan said nothing. And then continued to say nothing. Adam sank into the silence and tried to enjoy it. If he focused, Adam could hear the waves off the beach, the gentle crashes as beautiful as a lullaby. They relaxed him – perhaps too much – because he asked a question he never knew he had.

“What are you frightened of?”

For such a sudden and awkward question, Ronan didn’t seem phased. “Too much.”

“Do you worry about Opal?”

“Constantly.”

Adam pried further. “Are you lonely?”

Ronan grimaced. Adam wasn’t sure what that meant but Ronan didn’t elaborate. So, feeling silly and a bit reckless, Adam asked, “For someone so vocal in writing, you’re so quiet in person. Are you shy?”

“Hardly.”

“I got it, you’re afraid of people,” Adam joked.

“Certain ones, yes.”

Adam couldn’t tell if he was joking. Ronan’s face remained somber. (Or maybe thoughtful? Adam tried to step back, to not judge.)

Adam looked down at his feet. “What about me?”

He could feel Ronan’s eyes on him, but Adam kept his gaze pointed downward. Suddenly the night felt too warm.

“How much of Blue’s gin did you get into, Parrish?”

“Not _that_ much. And I’m just curious why you don’t like me,” Adam said. “Aside from my gratuitous use of semi-colons and my criticisms of Ireland, obviously.”

Ronan dropped his head to his hands and pressed his fingers into his forehead. “I don’t—It’s not that I don’t like you—You just—”

“Words, Ronan.”

 _“That, right there,_ isn’t helping your case,” Ronan bit. His next words were muffled as he dragged his hands down his face. “Your face. It bothers me.”

Adam scoffed. “Well, gee.”

“You’re too pretty.”

Adam peered at him, waiting for the second-half of the insult to drop. _It’s too punchable,_ or _You look like a little girl,_ or some of the many other just _lovely_ things his father would say to him.

But Ronan said nothing more. Adam exhaled slowly, quietly, so that Ronan wouldn’t notice his relief. He tugged at the hem of his collar, desperately needing cool air. What was with this sudden summer heat?

“Then you don’t hate me,” Adam said. “That’s good. I don’t hate you either.”

Ronan snorted.

“I really don’t. I’m upset with you because I _want_ to know you more and you won’t let me. It bothers me that you won’t talk to me.”

“We’re talking now.”

Adam ignored him. “Can’t we talk about books?”

“We’d just disagree,” Ronan warned.

“Perfect. I like to debate.”

They were interrupted by the thundering of footsteps. Unsurprisingly, Opal burst through the door seconds later and draped herself over Ronan’s shoulders.

“Hi Adam,” she said in her most polite and adult-tone. Which…was still rather flippant. “Why are you out here? It’s cold.”

“Come here, Kid.” In one swift move, Ronan reached behind him to tug her over his shoulders and into his lap. She erupted into giggles and Adam marveled at the sudden change. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her so happy. So… _childlike._ Ronan continued, “Sounds like you need a Ronan-hug-sandwich!”

She squirmed into Ronan’s arms, kicking her legs about and complaining loudly. Adam placed the back of his hand against his cheek, trying to gauge his temperature. His heart was beating stupidly fast—

Oh.

Adam pinched the inside of his wrist. _You’re being wildly inappropriate,_ he told himself. _The love of his life, the mother of his child, is_ **missing**. _Not the time._

As Ronan continued to smother Opal in a tight hug, he said, “Fine, Parrish. Come by the farm and I’ll tell you all the ways you’re wrong about everything you’ve ever read.”

Adam tried to smile.  
  
_I’ve made a horrible mistake._

* * *

 

 

 

> _From Adam to Henry_
> 
> _August 20 th, 1947_
> 
> _Henry,_
> 
> _I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying your vacation in Prague, but can you please come back soon? Your assistant has been calling almost daily to ask me various questions,_ _none_ _of which are important. How I wish Noah had his own telephone; Gansey must be so tired of collecting messages for me. A certain suitor keeps calling non-stop as well. I know your feelings regarding Tad so I assume you won’t mind me complaining. He’s been sending flowers to my place every other day, it’s preposterous! I know distance makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever that nonsense is, but someone needs to explain to him the allure of mystery._
> 
> _As far as the book goes: I’m in a stand-still. I’m trying to bring the topic up to Ronan but I don’t know how. We’ve been meeting for tea almost daily and he’s never spoke of Ashley, not once. If I can’t even bring her up_ at all, _how am I supposed to ask for permission to write her story?_
> 
> _And I just know they will think I’m trying to take advantage of them, and Ashley, and I don’t know how to explain that it’s not like that. I just feel so connected to these people and this island. It’s not about publishing it – in fact, more and more I feel making any money off them would make me ill – it’s like this is part of my destiny._
> 
> _Or maybe I’m just scared that, if I don’t write it down, I will forget this place. And these people._
> 
> _I don’t mind taking things slow. I have a good deal in savings still, right? And Noah has ensured me his house is open as long as I like. I’m content to continue my daily debates with Ronan and, who knows, maybe the time will come to bring it up._
> 
> _Speaking of Ronan, we’ve made a lot of progress in our friendship. He’s still an absolute curmudgeon half the time, but he’s wittier than I expected. Sharper. He has terrible taste in authors, though. Would it surprise you to find out he’s a Hemingway fan? I knew it the moment I saw him._
> 
> _Ronan maintains Hemingway’s lack of details allows for the reader to insert themselves into the story. God, I must have spent an hour trying to convince Ronan that it’s just laziness. Alas, he seems immune to my logic. I’ll break him down soon enough._
> 
> _Best,  
>  Adam _

* * *

 

TELEGRAM FROM HENRY TO ADAM

 

ADAM—URGENT QUESTION—  
PLEASE RESPOND AS SOON AS POSSIBLE:

  
I TAKE IT RONAN IS GOOD LOOKING, THEN?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, stupid Adam. Don't you know there's more than one Lynch? 
> 
> One of my favorite things about the original book is the subtlety of the main character's attraction. Well, maybe subtle is the wrong word. They would drop hints to the attraction growing without outright saying it, so I've tried to mimic that this chapter. As a result, I spent longer developing the story then I planned. I'm still thinking 5 chapters. This feels insanely rushed to me but I'm trying not to over-write.
> 
> I've lost track of these characters, they're blending! Ronan has become vaguely Amelia; Noah is half-Isolda, Blue the other half. It is what it is. If you don't know what I'm talking about, read the book! 
> 
> Thank you! <3


	3. The treasure box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked up approximately ONE fact for this chapter; the rest remains un-researched & likely extremely historically inaccurate. But at least I come cheap!

 

> _Letter from Adam to Henry_
> 
> _August 23 rd, 1947_
> 
> _Henry,_
> 
> _Your wit is astounding, as ever. See if I send you another letter the entirety of my time here. Or maybe I’ll stop not only writing_ to _you, but_ for _you._
> 
> _I’m offended you think my priorities would be anywhere but for Opal, the return of her mother, and the subsequent happiness it would bring Mr. Lynch to have her return._
> 
> _I hope you enjoy the abrupt end to this letter._
> 
> _Adam_

 

* * *

 

 

TELEGRAM FROM HENRY TO ADAM:

COME ON LAD. ONLY HAVING A BIT OF FUN.

RETURN MY CALLS PLEASE.

 

* * *

 

 

Adam wasn’t returning any of Henry’s letters or calls, but it wasn’t that he was actually _mad_ at Henry. But where Adam excelled in brains he failed in pride; it was easier to deny his attraction to Ronan than to admit his feelings were getting a bit out of control.

And the more time Adam spent with Ronan, the more the “a bit” became “a lot.”

Henry would see through him in seconds. It was too risky.

Despite knowing how inappropriate it was to have a crush on Ronan Lynch, Adam took every opportunity to be with him. Opal needed watching? Adam was there. Afternoon tea to discuss if Percy Shelly was an egomaniac? Adam brought scones.

He’d even help with chores, as it turned out. Which was how Adam found himself chasing pigs in the muddiest pen he’d ever encountered.

“How are they so fast? They’re enormous!” Adam complained. He heard Opal giggling from where she sat watching on the post.   
  
Ronan snorted. “Should’a never asked a city boy to do farm work.”

“I’m not a city boy!” Adam wiped his forearm across his brow and cursed. He was 99% sure he just coated his forehead with mud. Or, God, pig shit. “You’ve clearly raised your pigs wrong. I don’t even know how one would do that, but you’ve done it.”

“Opal. Show him how it’s done.”

Adam shot Ronan an unimpressed look. Ronan smiled back cheerily, a look so unlike him that it was obviously meant to spite Adam.

Still… Seeing Ronan smile did horrible things to Adam’s pulse.

Opal, thank God, wasn’t actually a mastermind at pig corralling. She ran around after the pigs in her bare feet, speckles of mud quickly making their way across her legs, arms, and clothes. She managed to get one of the pigs back into the barn and that was it. When she came back Ronan swooped her into the air, dangling her from her armpits, and clicked his tongue.

“Now you need a bath.”

Opal squealed in protest. As soon as her feet hit the ground she ran back towards the house, yelling “You can’t make me!”

Adam raised an eyebrow at Ronan. “Anti-bath?”

“She’s anti-everything right now,” he muttered. “I dunno’ what to do about it. Can’t be helped.”

Adam read between the lines. _Maybe her mother would know what to do._ He was still too much of a coward to bring Ashley up, so instead he tried to change the conversation the only way he knew how: by being a pill.

“You’ve lied to me, Mr. Lynch.”

Ronan frowned. “How so?”

“You promised we were going to finally discuss that review on Maxim Gorky that was so controversial, and yet all we’ve done is march around in the mud,” Adam complained. He took a step into the said mud and found he couldn’t move. His entire boot was stuck in inches of thick goop. “Oh, Lord.”

Adam barely caught the smirk that crossed Ronan’s features. He took two giant steps toward Adam and nodded in satisfaction. “Doing alright there, Parrish?”

Adam used both hands to tug at the straps of his boots. No good. He was still stuck. He looked up at Ronan and said, “I need you to not say anything and just help.”

“But how can we discuss the article if I can’t talk?”

“Very funny. Can you just help?”

They both tugged at Adam’s boots together. Nothing. Ronan stood back and stared at Adam’s feet, hands on hips, frowning.

“Parrish, what did you _do?”_

“It’s _your_ mud.”

“I think you have to abandon the boots.”

“Absolutely not. Do you know how hard it is to get boots after the war?”

“Not _forever._ It’ll be easier to pull them out when you’re not weighing them down,” Ronan muttered. He leaned over and began to untie the laces. “Alright. Step out.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Do I need to hoist you up by your armpits, too?”

Adam huffed. “Unlike your daughter, I’m not going to run around in my socks. They’d be ruined! And--”

“I know, I know. _Do you know hard it is to get a decent pair of socks after the war?_ ” Despite their arguing, Ronan seemed quite pleased with the situation. He was smiling, anyhow. “I’ll help you, come on.”

“You’re not very much help now.”

Ronan turned around and crouched down, facing his back to Adam. He patted his back shoulder and said, “Come on.”

Adam’s first instinct was to laugh, but when combined with the view of Ronan’s broad back, it came out closer to a giggle. A breathless, stupid giggle. Ronan peered up and over his shoulder at Adam, clearly confused by the response, so Adam attempted to cover it up with what he hoped was the manliest of throat coughs.

He was, without a doubt, a moron.

“Are you getting on or not?”

“Just—Hold on, would you?” Adam loosened his feet from his boots and stared at Ronan’s back. God. This was a terrible, terrible idea. “Should I just… hop on?”

“Yes, and preferably before the sun goes down.”

It was an awkward endeavor, climbing on Ronan’s back. Adam was sure he’d slip off at any moment, or his weight would pitch Ronan forward.

“You’re going to have to hang onto my neck if you don’t want to fall off.”

Adam looked to the sky, cursing whatever higher-power found this situation amusing. Still, he followed Ronan’s request and hoped Ronan couldn’t feel how fast his heart was beating. His lips were so close to Ronan’s neck. If he wanted he could just twist his head a fraction and bite Ronan’s earlobe—

_Do not go there,_ Adam told himself.

But then Ronan moved his hands under Adam’s thighs, obviously to keep Adam steady, but the touch made Adam blackout for a moment.

Needless to say, Adam didn’t write Henry any letters that day either.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> _Letter from Henry to Adam_
> 
> _September 1st, 1947_
> 
> _Dear Adam,_
> 
> _It appears you are still upset with me, fine. You win. You_ don’t _have a crush on the grumpy farmer. You are a man of your word, with upstanding honor, a true hero among men._
> 
> _However, there is one man that I insist we DO discuss, and that is the dapper Mr. Carruthers. He has been ringing me nonstop, complaining about how you’re still on the island. He thinks it’s_ me _who is keeping you there. He also seems to be of the belief you two are an official item. News to me._
> 
> _But, I suppose, since there is no one else you DO fancy, what’s the harm in making things official with Carruthers._
> 
> _Should I let him know that he has received my blessing?_
> 
> _Best,  
>  Henry_

* * *

 

TELEGRAM FROM ADAM TO HENRY:

DON’T YOU DARE.

 

 

* * *

 

 

TELEGRAM FROM HENRY TO ADAM:

STILL WAITING FOR A GOOD REASON WHY I SHOULDN’T…

 

* * *

 

> _Letter from Adam to Henry_
> 
> _September 7 th, 1947_
> 
> _Dear Henry,_
> 
> _You are insufferable, do you know that?_
> 
> _Fine._
> 
> _I have an inappropriate crush on this stupid, Irish farmer._
> 
> _Adam_
> 
> _P.S. – This means you will talk to Tad for me, right? I never thought we were dating, so it shouldn’t be my responsibility to break up with him._

* * *

 

 

TELEGRAM FROM HENRY TO ADAM

YOU ARE A FUNNY MAN.

LET HIM DOWN EASY, WILL YOU? HIS FATHER PAYS MY CHECKS.

 

* * *

 

 

“I never said when I’d be returning,” Adam said wearily into the phone. On the other end was Tad, who until this point, Adam thought to be a glorified fling. But the weekly flower deliveries were turning into almost _daily_ flower deliveries. And the flower deliveries were starting to arrive with increasingly romantic _notes_.

Adam sensed he and Tad were _not_ on the same page.

“But it’s been almost a month!”

“I like it here,” Adam said. He peered over his shoulder and caught Gansey’s eye. The man quickly looked away and resumed sorting letters, but in an obvious over-done way that signaled his spying. “I think it’s best that you stop sending flowers.”

“But Adam—”

_“Please_ , Tad.” Adam’s voice lowered to a whisper, so very aware that Gansey was eavesdropping. “I’m not sure when I’ll be coming back. I do not want any more flowers. You _must_ see what I’m getting at here.”

Tad’s sigh crackled over the poor connection. “I’m not an idiot, Adam. But surely _you_ understand why I’m finding this news hard to accept! Of _course_ you don’t feel the same for me, you haven’t seen me in almost a month! Don’t you think—”

The twinkling of bells signaled the entrance of a guest at the post office. Adam’s eyes caught Ronan’s gaze as soon as the man entered. Gansey lit up at the sight of his friend. Adam couldn’t keep track of what Gansey said – not with Tad blabbering in his ear – but it didn’t matter. Whatever Gansey said couldn’t have been very important, as Ronan’s attention lingered on Adam.

They were staring at one another in a way that spread warmth to the very tips of Adam’s toes. Adam broke first, dropping his eyes to the ground as he curled the cord of the phone around his finger.

“Adam?”

“Oh. Yes. It’s hard, I know, but it’s the way it is,” Adam said quickly, hoping it was enough to placate Tad. “I’ve got to go. Thank you for everything until now.”

He hung up before Tad could argue further. By now, Ronan was no longer watching Adam. _Probably for the best,_ Adam thought. _That look is ruining my knees._

“What brings you here?” Adam asked, hands stuffed in his pockets to complete the air of casualty.

“Same reason you’re here.” Ronan jerked his head to the phone. “Need to make a few calls.”

Gansey gripped Ronan’s shoulder and said, “Maybe this time.”

Based on the seriousness of the moment, Adam guessed what the calls were about. _Ashley._ Ronan sucked a deep breath through his nose before he walked over to the phone.

Once Ronan had the phone to his ear, Adam turned to Gansey and whispered, “Who does he call?”

“Anybody he can. Last week I got in touch with one of my old generals. He’s over in Poland now, trying to help all the displaced people.” Gansey bit at the edge of his thumb. “We don’t know what camp she was taken to. There’s so many.”

“I wish I could help. I don’t really have any connections.”

“That’s right, you said you didn’t go to the war. Injury?”

“I’m deaf in one ear. Apparently that’s a deal breaker,” Adam grimaced. “I wish I could have—”

“You don’t need to worry,” Gansey interrupted. “There’s no judgements from me. So many of our islanders couldn’t go off to the war, either. Didn’t mean they weren’t helping. I’m sure you did what you could.”

Adam bit his lip. He never felt like he was much help. He wrote a series of articles that made people laugh, sure, but that was nothing compared to _being_ in the war.

“Was it… hard?” Adam winced. “I sound like an idiot. I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to ask about it.”

Gansey smiled. “I still think about it a lot, yes. I was lucky to not be called up until the end, though, so I can’t complain. Germany took control of Jersey pretty early on. We didn’t get much chance to leave.”

Adam frowned. He was trying to put together the timeline of Ronan leaving for war and the Germans taking Ashley. Noah made it sound like Ronan left far before Opal was every born. “Ronan signed up early, then?”

“Hm?” Gansey looked at their mutual companion and tilted his head. “He never went to war.”

“What?”

“He _wanted_ to,” Gansey added quickly. “Broke his arm right around the time the war started. Disqualified him, and then Germany took over. As one of the only pig farmers, they kept him here so they’d always have meat around.”

“But—” Adam stopped abruptly. He suddenly felt crazy. He could have _sworn_ Noah and Blue said Ronan had gone off to war. _That he’d missed the birth of Opal._

But Gansey seemed so sure. Him and Ronan were best friends, of course he’d know.

Maybe Adam had misunderstood Noah.

Adam was pulled away from his thoughts by the sound of the phone slamming into the receiver. Ronan was leaning his forehead against the wall, hands laced behind his head.

“Fucking nothing, as usual,” Ronan muttered.

Adam’s heart twisted. He hated seeing Ronan like this – frustrated, hopeless – and he hated feeling useless. He wished he could help. Even if it meant reuniting Ronan with the love of his life.

But maybe he _could_ help.

The idea came to him while he tossed in bed that night, unable to sleep. Adam _did_ have a connection: Henry. While Henry didn’t have any military connections, he could easily get an ad slipped into the paper. Or maybe Adam could write a short piece, something that might drum up attention and get word out—

He slipped out of bed and began typing at once.

In the morning he raced to Ronan’s place, draft in his hand. Ronan took in his disheveled hair and pink cheeks, an insult ready on his tongue, but Adam interrupted him by thrusting the article to his chest.

“You can say ‘no,’” Adam said. “But I thought—I don’t know, I just wanted to help.”

Ronan started a tea kettle as he read over the article. He read it again, twisting his bottom lip with his finger.

“What do you think?” Adam leaned forward and pointed at a few lines. “This is just a first draft. I don’t really like this part—I think I might cut—Or—I don’t know. I’ll think on it. I just thought: I have this platform, and Henry would do anything for me—”

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Go ahead. Have it printed.” Ronan ran a hand across his scalp. “I don’t know if it it’ll work, but I’ll try anything. Opal—She needs her Mom.”

Ronan’s voice was so quiet. His hand rested on the table, trembling slightly. Adam wanted so badly to lay his hand across Ronan’s. To comfort him. Adam’s hands twitched in his lap, and boldly, he raised one—

But Ronan busied himself with the tea kettle.

Adam cleared his throat. “I’ll, um, I’ll rewrite it today. Then send a letter out to Henry. He could probably get it printed by next week.”

Ronan set a teacup in front of Adam without a word. He was deep in thought. For one awful minute, Adam thought about what this meant for his crush. Whether he was ruining any chance he had with Ronan by doing this.

The thought was quickly squashed. He was being stupid. Selfish. Opal needed her Mom. Ronan deserved love.

And Adam had no part in the equation.

They drank their tea in silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Henry had the article printed in the following week’s paper. He sent a copy to Jersey Island, which everyone in the Raven Pot Pie Society read excitedly over dinner.

Opal sat on Ronan’s lap as he read her the article. Every time Adam doubted his article, or his thoughts strayed selfishly to himself, he’d pay attention to her face. The little smile that crept onto her lips, fighting to find a place in her word.

It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even really about Ronan.

This was about giving a little girl her mother.

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later Adam woke to a pounding door. Knowing Noah was already at work, Adam stumbled out of bed and to the door. Ronan, out of breath and sweat sticking to his forehead, was holding Opal in his arms.

“Is everything okay?” Adam asked.

“Yes. Just— Someone came in from town. There’s an emergency at the docks and they need my help, but—” His eyes flicked to Opal.

Adam caught on quickly. “Opal, how would you like to spend the day with me?”

Adam worried he might need to come up with a quick list of fun activities to persuade her, but it was unnecessary. Delightfully, Opal simply held out her arms and allowed Adam to scoop her up.

Ronan mouthed a “thank you” and slowly backed away. Adam waved him off, kicked the door shut with his foot, and led Opal to the kitchen.

He didn’t mind watching Opal. True, whenever he visited the farm he was plagued with his own ulterior motive, but he could love Ronan _and_ Opal at the same time. Plus, the more he spent time with her, the more Opal opened up to him. Trusted him.

They spent the entire day together. They baked cookies in the morning and then delivered them to the Society. They played on the beach, collecting sea glass and interesting shells, and played tag in the reeds. (And then took a well-deserved nap for several hours after that.)

The best part of the day, however, was when Opal took him back to her house. She showed him her room – her dolls, her dresses, her artwork.

Then, taking his hand, Opal made Adam sit on the bed next to her. From her nightstand she pulled out her box of treasures, the one he’s seen her carry around when they’d first met.

Opal crossed her legs and placed her treasure box carefully upon her lap. She opened the box slowly, wondering whether she was making the correct choice. Eventually, though, the box was open and all her secrets were finally revealed. There were shells she’d collected from their last picnic on the beach; soft, blue ribbons and lace doilies; a pressed lavender plant. And there was a picture face down that kept all of Opal’s attention.

Adam whispered, “Is that a special photo?”

Opal nodded. “Of my Mommy.”

_Ashley._ Adam was filled with the selfish desire to see the face of the woman who dominated the island but was all too aware of Opal’s hesitancy. It wasn’t his place to push her. And yet-- Opal had been the one to show him her treasure box and that seemed important, too.

“Is that your most precious treasure?” Adam asked.

Opal picked it up and held it to her heart. “Do you want to see her?”

“Would _you_ like me to see her?” Adam smoothed down a cowlick at the top of her head. “It’s okay to keep some things just for yourself, if that’s what you want.”

Opal shook her head and handed the photo to Adam. “It’s okay.”

Adam took his time looking at the photo. It was a picture of a couple hugging, arms wrapped around one another. He diverted his eyes to the female, half due to true interest and half to avoid seeing what Ronan’s face looked like in love.

He traced his finger along the shape of Ashley and whispered, “She’s beautiful.”

Opal beamed, and Adam realized which parent she got her smile from. Her lips twisted in the exact same way that Ashley looked in the photo, so perfect that Adam wondered if Opal had studied it.

Adam was trying so hard not to look at Ronan, but it was impossible to avoid his part in the picture. Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe this is what he needed, to shake himself out of his stupid, inappropriate crush.

He allowed his eyes to trail to the picture of Ronan.

Except—

It wasn’t Ronan.

Adam brought the picture closer to his vision just to be sure, but he was certain of it. While the man did look an awful lot _like_ Ronan, there was no amount of time passed that could explain the changes in this man’s face.

“Opal… Who is this man?” Adam finally asked.

She blinked at him. “That’s Daddy.”

“But—” Adam stopped himself from saying more. It was preposterous to argue with her. What an absurdly rude and insensitive thing it would be for him to do to her precious treasure. If she believed it to be her father then Adam had no right to shatter her world.

_But it wasn’t Ronan._

Adam looked back at Opal, forcing himself to be present in that moment. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

She smiled shyly at him. “You’re welcome.”

The sun was setting when Ronan finally returned. Opal was tucked into her bed, eyes heavy from the day’s business, as Adam sat reading her a bedtime story. Ronan leaned against the doorframe and watched until the story ended.

“Hi Daddy,” Opal whispered. “I’m sleepy.”

Ronan walked over and placed a kiss on Opal’s temple. “Then go to sleep, Kid.”

Adam watched the two together, eyes greedy. Since Opal revealed the picture he’d been gnawing on an idea. Putting together inconsistencies and off-hand comments.

Once Opal’s breathing evened out they left for the kitchen. Ronan jerked his head toward the couch and said, “Want a drink?”

A minute later Ronan handed him a glass of wine. Adam tapped his fingers on the glass, watching as Ronan started a fire. He had to ask about the photo. He needed to know the truth.

No. That wasn’t right. He just _wanted_ to know the truth. Because for the first time he felt a tiny spark of hope, that maybe what he imagined in Ronan’s gaze wasn’t impossible.

Ronan sat back on the couch and dropped his neck onto its ledge, eyes shut. “Today was long.”

“Everything turn out alright?”

He puffed a breath of air that was half a laugh. “Yes. Some idiot ran his ship into the port. Destroyed half of it. We rushed to fix it. A fucking mess.” His eyes slid open. “Thank you for watching her.”

“It was fun.”

“Well, you didn’t have to.” Ronan looked down to pick at a stray thread on his pant leg. “She likes you. Talks about you all the time.”

Adam brought his glass to his lips as an excuse to hide his smile. After taking a small sip he said, “She showed me her treasure box.”

Ronan’s lips twisted. “Did she.”

There was a moment of pure silence in the room, broken only by the pop of the fire burning. Adam inhaled a shaky breath and said, “I need to ask you something. And I know it’s none of my business, and that I don’t have the right to ask—”

“Just ask.”

“Is Opal—” Adam stopped. The question on his tongue – _Is Opal really your daughter? –_ suddenly sounded ridiculous. It didn’t matter who was in that picture; Ronan raised her now, of course she was his daughter.

He thought to the picture. Of the man who looked so much _like_ Ronan, but wasn’t him.

“Do you have a brother?” Adam asked finally.

There was a very long pause before Ronan finally answered.

“I’m never sure how to answer that question.” Adam’s eyes dipped to Ronan’s throat, watching the heavy breath he swallowed. “I have two… _Had_ two brothers. However you want to say it.”

Ronan took a quick sip of wine. Adam didn’t take his eyes off him. “I’m sorry.”

“Matthew died when I was young. I don’t remember him much. My Mum and Dad, too. They all got sick.” Ronan spoke of them with a faraway look. “Declan, my older brother, he knew someone on Jersey, got a job offer. Moved us here. That’s why I left Ireland.”

_Declan._ Adam thought to the picture. That had to be him.

“He died in the war,” Ronan continued. Adam hated how stable his voice was, knowing that Ronan must have told the story so many times. “Everyone did, I suppose, but his death— It’s too unfair. It’s fucking unfair.”  

Ronan took a longer drink. He was already done with his wine, so Adam passed him his own glass.

“He never got to meet Opal,” Adam said.

Ronan’s pained expression confirmed any last doubts Adam had about her parentage. “He never even knew he was going to be a father. He would have been a good one. Better than me, that’s for sure. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing half the time.”

“You’re a great father.”

Ronan took another sip of Adam’s wine before he passed it back to him. “No, but I’m the closet thing she’s got. It is what it is.” He leaned his head back again and stared at the ceiling. “When they took Ashley, I thought I was going to die. What was the point? Another family member taken, poof, no warning. I thought about it all the time. But—”

“You had Opal,” Adam finished. He turned onto his side and rested his head against the plush of the couch, wine glass cradled in his lap.

“She calls me ‘Dad,’” Ronan said. “I’ve told her about Declan, but she doesn’t understand. I don’t know if it’s right to let her call me that, but—"

“She should get to call someone Dad,” Adam whispered. “You’re raising her. It’s okay she calls you that.”

Ronan’s eyes met Adam’s. _They’re so blue,_ Adam thought. _Even in the dark._

It was so quiet.

Ronan was still looking at him.

“You’re not who I thought you were,” Adam said. His voice was barely there. “I thought—Your letters—I didn’t know you’d be like this.”

“Like what?” Ronan reached for Adam’s glass again. Instead of taking a drink, he set the cup on the ground. The movement slid him closer to Adam.

Everything seemed hazy and warm all the sudden. And slower. Every inhale of breath felt thick and forced, a side-effect of his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

Ronan’s gaze had dropped to Adam’s hands, which were still resting in his lap, curled as if they still held the glass. Adam stretched out his fingers, lengthening them. Slowly, Ronan trailed his knuckle along the edge of Adam’s hand, down his pointer finger, lingering on the very tip.

Adam felt like he’d swallowed the fire. He burned everywhere.

“Adam,” Ronan breathed. They locked eyes again. Ronan slid his fingers up Adam’s palm.

The fire was consuming him and Adam only wanted more. He leaned in--

But someone knocked at the door.

They both jumped apart at the noise. Ronan pulled his hand from Adam’s, stealing any last bit of heat as he left to answer the door.

“Sorry for coming by so late, Ronan.” Adam could hear Noah’s voice. “Is Adam here by chance? He wasn’t at Blue’s…”

Adam quickly drank the rest of his wine, irritation growing. What could Noah possibly have needed him for, enough to come knocking on houses?

“He was watching Opal for me today,” Ronan muttered.

Adam joined him at the door, forcing a smile for the man who was giving him absolutely free rent.

But Noah wasn’t alone. The smile dropped from Adam’s face. Next to Noah was Tad, who held a bouquet of roses.

Noah looked back and forth between Tad and Adam. “Um, you have a visitor…?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, sorry entire Lynch family. My bad. 
> 
> Also RIP to Tad Carruthers next chapter, when Adam murders him for cock-blockage. (In his defense, Adam really should listen to his phone calls instead of goggling cute boys in the post office.)

**Author's Note:**

> It's winter break which means I have 2 weeks of sweet, sweet freedom to write whatever the fuck I want. I couldn't get this idea out of my head (okay, yeah, it's only been 24 hours but my threshold is very low) and decided to dabble with it. 3k later here I am.
> 
> Also, if anyone is familiar with the book/movie (PLEASE tell me someone is, I only know one person) you will know that I strongly debated making Noah be Elizabeth but decided that would be too sad.


End file.
